sparkle and burn and take your time
by exquisitenonsense
Summary: It's just never going to go away; it's always been you. It's always been us. / Manhattan is nothing if not the perfect backdrop for love, hate, friendship, and everything in between. Neal/OFC.
1. prologue

**entitled;** sparkle and burn and take your time  
**summary;** It's just never going to go away; it's always been you. It's always been us. (Or: The Continuing Madness of Neal Caffrey's World)  
**rating;** T, for language and future situations. It may be upped to an M. We'll see!  
**disclaimer;** I own nothing. Neal Caffrey and the White Collar universe do not belong to me.  
**notes;** Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Sofka Mikhailovna Poltavetsa was born in Monte Carlo. Her birth certificate no longer exists.

If it did, it would list her father's name (_M. Mikhail Vasil'yevich_), her mother's (_Mme. Elodie Clemence)_, and that she was born on the twentieth of October.

It would not tell you that her eyes were green, or that the first person to hold her was a governess. It would not tell you that she was a quiet daughter - nor would it give any indication that she would come to speak four languages fluently, or that she would flee her home at just eighteen and disappear into a wonderfully vibrant world.

And it would certainly not tell you that it was in Neal Caffrey's mouth that _Sofka _softened into _Sofia_.

(But that's getting ahead of the story.)


	2. crumbled you straight to your knees

_Well, maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away - maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it.  
- _"Love, Love, Love_,_" Of Monsters and Men.

* * *

Sofia Benoit, Peter Burke observes, is not built of smoke and mirrors - not well, anyway. Not of any real threat. Rather, he thinks, she is made up of discernible parts: chipped, unpainted nails, tapping out irregular beats on the table; stilted, nearly stuttered words, her accent rolling around them like waves to a bulky ocean liner; riding breeches and polished tall boots, smelling faintly of grass and grain.

"I only talked to him - just a few times," Sofia says, pressing her hands flat to the surface of the table. "Just cursory."

"Cursory," Peter repeats, turning it over in his mouth. He has not fashioned Sofia a liar - not yet - but he would not have had her brought to his office if she hadn't known Jeremy Northe for as many years as it would appear that she does. Now, there is a difference between knowing and knowing, and it would appear that while Sofia is very good at the first, she's absolutely clueless when it comes to the second.

She nods, stays silent.

"But you two run in similar circles," Peter suggests, trying to help without leading. "Is there anything you can tell us about where he might be?"

"Nothing more than word of mouth," she says haltingly. She takes a long minute to think, and Peter lets her, rereading the case file he has open on the table between them. The glossy photo of Northe and a printout from his bank account. The former is pushed towards Sofia, the latter remains in the case folder.

Currently, Northe is little more than an irritation - the son of a hedge fund proprietor, a playboy with an interest in polo. After some minor inconsistencies in the elder Northe's business records appeared, rippling through the circles of the hedge fund like a pebble into water, Patrick Northe thought the only option was to bring the issue to the FBI and strongly suggest that his _irresponsible and lazy_son was to blame.

Sofia finally says, "I think I've heard that his family has a place in Florida. Wellington. But a lot of people are coming north right now -"

"Like you?"

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Like me," she agrees hesitantly. Nervous she's implicating herself, Peter knows. He's seen it all before. He half expects her to ask for a lawyer, but she doesn't - just blinks hard and continues, "So if he's done something wrong - he might still be there. But some people go to Europe. Chantilly, especially."

_Tap, tap, tap._

The tapping is a little endearing and a lot irritating, but Sofia is staring at the photo, eyes narrowed with such concentration that Peter cannot bring himself to reprimand or distract her. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more. Maybe - I might know a few people who know more about him, if you'd like their contact information?"

_Contact information._ They had not emailed or telephoned Sofia. Diana had gone down to the stable where Sofia rides and asked her to _please come to the White Collar Crime offices - no, no, just a little bit of questioning, you've done nothing wrong_.

(As far as Diana knew at the point, but that's all the reassurance a seasoned FBI agent knows how to offer - and even then, sometimes it falls flat.)

"You gave us some good information, Miss Benoit," Peter lies. She didn't tell them anything they couldn't get from flight records. "We'll see where it takes us, and then see if that's necessary."

It's a closing line, and Sofia knows enough to recognize it. Her shoulders relax and fall, just a tiny bit, away from her ears, and she stands up. He leads her to the elevator bank, and she follows quietly, her hands clasped delicately in front of her - it makes it suddenly obvious that she doesn't have anything with her. Not a handbag, not a wallet, not a pair of sunglasses.

She may as well have bloomed from the sidewalk, a friend of a friend of a potential criminal.

They reach the elevators just as there's a soft, musical ding, and the doors slide open, and Sofia stares into the Neal Caffrey's angular, handsome face. There's laughter behind his eyes, because there's _always_ laughter there, and he looks from agent to girl and back again.

"Morning, Peter," he says, and then ups his charm to an eleven and turns his full attention to Sofia. "Agent Neal Caffrey."

"You're not an agent," Peter says, reaching around Neal to keep the elevator in place. "He's not an agent," he tells Sofia.

"Okay," she says. There's an uncertain smile playing at the edges of her lips, and she begins tapping the fingers of her left hand against her thigh; it does not go unnoticed by either of the men. "Hi."

"Miss Benoit was just finishing up her statement," Peter says, gently steering Sofia into the waiting elevator car.

"For?"

"The Northe thing," Peter says offhandedly, and without an ounce of the sincerity that he puts into the, "Thank you for your time, Miss Benoit. We'll call if we have any further questions," that he gives Sofia.

She smiles, fingers still tapping an uneven beat against her leg. "You're welcome. It was nice meeting you." She pauses. Her brow furrows. "Both of you," she quickly corrects.

The doors slide shut, and the elevator whirrs into motion.

"You're _not_ an agent," Peter tells Neal, blinking. "Please tell me you know that."

Neal just smiles and swans - _peacocks_, really, because Neal is nothing if not attention-grabbing - further into the offices, towards Peter's waiting office and the case within.

* * *

"According to Benoit, we may be looking at a laundering scheme."

Neal looks up, tilts his head. He's been looking at the case file, his clear blue eyes steadily becoming more and more glazed over. It does not escape Peter that Neal, try as he might, is not used to this life - of analyzing information and sitting in offices for long periods of time doing it. He is whip smart and quick when they're in the field, and impossibly valuable as a consultant - but the day to day work is below him, and everyone in the White Collar Unit knows it.

(Whether they choose to admit it or not.)

Peter leans forward, elbows resting on his messy desk. There's a picture of Elizabeth in the corner, a cup of pencils and a small globe on either side of his name plate. Its surface is covered in papers: forms to film out, evidence lists, research that Jones and Diana have left on his desk throughout the week. He usually devotes an hour or two on Fridays to clean everything up, set things straight.

"Northe has connections in Europe. There's a possibility that he's exchanging the money from United States dollars to Euros and back again -"

Neal laughs, because he's Neal Caffrey (_Danny Brooks, and George Danvery, Nicolas Halden, and Steve Tabernacle, and Victor Moreau_), and he's never had to lose so much as a coin due to exchange rates - but then, laundering was never his big topic. _Too inelegant,_ Neal had once said, in a rare moment of honesty about the most criminal aspects of his life.

Except, Peter doesn't think it was quite so honest - he's sure, like most other criminals and supposed law-abiding citizens, Swiss and off-shore bank accounts are not difficult to get. So perhaps he never took millions to a casino and walked away with a check; but Neal Caffrey came from nothing and has spent his life building up the gorgeous apartment, the designer suits, the ease with which he navigates the billion dollar world of Manhattan.

"Yeah, yeah," Peter says, rolling his eyes, "But he's exchanging billions of dollars. The exchange rate doesn't even matter."

Neal leans back in his chair, twirls a pen in his fingers, and says, "He'd need help. A lot of help. He can hardly exchange a billion dollars himself."

Peter stands; grasps the back of his desk chair with both hands. "So, _if_ that is what Northe is doing, he'd have go have help."

"Presumably."

"Alright," Peter says, crossing from one side of his office to the other, properly on a lead. "Who would he work with? Other members of the hedge fund?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "We'll need to talk to them."

"All of them?" Neal asks skeptically. He shakes his head and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You brought Sofia in because Northe spends a lot of time at polo matches, right?"

Peter stops, turns towards Neal. "Who?"

"Sofia," Neal repeats. "Isn't that her name? Sofia Benoit?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "So let's try to match up members of Northe's hedge fund with polo regulars."

Peter thinks it over. "I'll get Jones on it_. _You and me, we still need to _find_ Jeremy."

* * *

Two hours after Agent Barrigan appeared to take her to the FBI offices, Sofia is back on a horse.

The stable is not a crime scene. It is by circumstance alone that a familiar face around the barn is now being looked into by the FBI. She cannot let the going-ons distract her - certainly not while working with Larkspur, who is neither demure nor obedient, and needs her full attention. She aims the massive grey towards an oxford, counts strides, _three, two, one_, and tips over it.

Larkspur's ears swivel, and Sofia gently see-saws the reins through her fingers; she's barely ready for the spook when it comes, in the form of a man's voice, words carrying thickly through the warm May air, stagnant in the indoor arena despite the fans spinning above.

"That looked nice," Neal Caffrey says.

Lark snorts. Sofia sits deep in the saddle, inhaling and exhaling in tempo with her posts as she slows Lark to a walk. There's something in her throat; she'd think it dirt, dust, something _physical_ - but of all the things Sofia is, she is not of the habit of making things into what they are not.

"You're right," Sofia agrees. "It was nice. Not perfect, though." She bites back the _but you've never known much about jumping, have you_? It is too familiar, and she is no longer that girl.

He walks further into the arena, his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. It is expensive - because Neal would not wear anything less - and the way he walks, almost gingerly, like he_'_s playing a part, someone less confident than himself, reaffirms it. A dusty arena is no place for tailored Armani.

No place for Neal Caffrey.

Sofia keeps Lark walking. It's easier for her to think that way, without having to look at Neal the entire time. Without having to focus on him. Not like when he materialized from the elevator back at the offices - not with Agent Burke at her side, an _actual_ agent, the closest Sofia has ever been to one.

"I have to assume that Peter didn't bring you in this morning as a suspect?" Neal says.

"I know Jeremy Northe. In passing," she says, and her voice is like a startled animal, just before it's caught in a trap. Lark tosses his head, irritated. Sofia presses her tongue to the back of her teeth, even as she brings the horse to a stop; this is the second ride she's had to cut short today.

Neal is there, taking hold of Lark's reins, steadying him as she dismounts.

They're close together, Neal's eyes pale and blue, pulling her with something like gravity; she turns her back to him, works on removing Lark's saddle, just for something to do with the nervous energy that is running through her hands. She doesn't know a Neal Caffrey that isn't hyper perceptive; she doesn't need him to see the shaking in her fingertips.

"How have you been, Sofia?"

"I've been well," she says. Pauses. Presses her tongue to the back of her teeth. "Thank you. How have you been?"

"Very well."

He follows her back into the barn. Sofia tries not to think about that as she passes Lark off to a groom. She takes her helmet off, trying to incongruously put some volume back into her hair, when she turns back to him, Neal is watching her with an amused smile.

"That used to be you," he says, nodding at the retreating figure of the working student and the horse. He sounds almost proud, more familiar than he has any reason being, and that rattles something loose in Sofia.

"Please - please do not do this, Neal, alright? I'm not -" Sofia's aware of how high her voice has become, how desperate it is, and she feels a dryness in her throat that promises tears. She grits her teeth. "You're with the FBI now. That's good - I'm glad. Do you have more questions for me? Do you have to take me back to the office? I don't - I don't really know what you're doing here."

Sofia's voice cracks on the last word, and Neal's expression changes. For a conman, he's never been terribly good at hiding the most primal of emotions: shock, fear, love.

Now, his expression is less amused, less casual, but Sofia does not believe for a second that that means he's not going to be lying through his teeth, conning her, when he says, voice quiet, as earnest as he'd been years ago, touching her gently on the inside of her wrist, asking her to _please don't go_ -

"I just wanted to see you."

It is too easy to lose herself in a different story, a different history; Neal is pulling at her, coaxing her back through everything they have ever been, they are everything in this moment and she is revisiting history:

- she is in Venice and Neal is painting her, the broad, simple, universal lines of her face, forming a base for his forgery, painting her into the lie -

- she is in Boston, at the Gardner Museum, because Neal has an appreciation for history, and they stand, Neal's arm around her shoulders, and admire the empty frames, and she begins to _doubt_ -

- she is in Monte Carlo, barely eighteen and in a glittering gown (because this is their first meeting, you see, and there would never be anything less for _them_), and Neal is promising her adventure and beauty -

_Everything she's ever wanted._

It was not a lie - that much, at least, has not changed.

Because she is here, and she plays polo in the Hamptons and in Portugal, and she horseback rides in France and Florida. And that is hers. Neal brought her to New York, this mess of steel and glass, and she built a life for herself there.

She went to the Olympics, and he went to prison.

Neal hesitates, and then, in a voice so soft and gentle that it brings Sofia to tears, he asks, "Are you happy?"


End file.
